Revelations
by Shiris Barton
Summary: Slightly AU, set after the war.  The pilots have to deal with becoming ordinary citizens, navigating relationships, and government intrigue.  Each pilot has OC partner.  First person POV, present tense.  Reviews welcome
1. Chapter 1  Larissa

When I wake I see his face, vulnerable and open. His eyes are closed and he breathes softly, like a baby. I love him more at this moment than any other. I know that once he opens his eyes I won't see Trowa; I'll see the man Trowa has created. Even I, after five years of sharing a life with him, don't know him.

Sometimes that depresses me. I'll sit in the bay window on the hard blue cushion and stare out at our small garden. I tried planting flowers one year, red and white tulips, but they died in a sudden frost. I didn't bother trying again. So I stare at the empty dirt, drawing my knees close to my chest, fingering the chain around my neck that holds the opal pendant he gave me when he asked me to marry him. That was two years ago, and the longer the engagement goes on the more I hesitate to set the date.

This morning we slept in, and so the sun falls on the few inches of space between our faces. It looks like a shaft of light glowing from within the bed. I put my hand on it, feeling the warmth. I want to touch his face, but I know he'll wake up the moment I do, and I don't want him to. I hold my hand splayed out, like a spider.

Once we had a purpose, a meaning, a clear-cut, black and white view of life. We received orders and carried out missions without much thought to what went on outside of the barracks. But when the war ended a year ago so did our tiny view on life. Suddenly we had to find meaning in mundane office jobs, driving a car, find satisfaction in socializing with other people. Any relationship would suffer during that adjustment period, but we came out of it stronger. Instead of assignments, we had each other.

But now, as I look at my hand that can't move to his face because it might wake him and then I won't be able to see the real Trowa, I know there's something wrong with this situation. Do I want to spend the rest of my life with a man that I will never know? I want a family, and children, and grandchildren. I see no other way to scrounge out satisfaction from this transient life.

When we were pilots we had too many distractions for me to notice his incredible inability to reveal himself. I only found that out once I craved a deeper connection, once I had nothing to occupy my time but him. I don't know if he feels the same. I don't even know if he realizes he's doing anything to bother me. I haven't spoken to him about it because I'm afraid of what he might say. He might say he's doing it on purpose, keeping me out because he doesn't trust me enough. Or love me enough.

The sun moves slowly across the bed and onto my pillow. I roll over and close my eyes, pulling the blankets up to my chin so I look like a baby in a papoose. Trowa shifts slightly, and I imagine him turning onto his back. He'll have his right hand folded over his chest, the left hanging off the edge of the bed. I know that, but I don't know why he never cries at funerals. I have seen him smile when he watches a child playing in the park, but I have never seen him express anger. Am I selfish for wanting to know him as well as I know myself? For wanting as much from a relationship as I give? He knows me as well as I know myself—there is literally nothing that I hide from him, no part of me that he hasn't experienced.

I can't sleep. I unwrap myself and slide from the bed, careful not to move it too much. I'm sure he knows I've gotten up, but he just rolls over and goes back to sleep. It's 8 AM, and he's going to sleep for another 30 minutes. Like all the rest of us, his inner alarm clock is punctual.

I throw on the robe that hangs on the back of our door, the red cashmere one next to his blue, and go downstairs to make breakfast. On the weekends I always make pancakes, and he eats one plain and one chocolate with strawberries and whipped cream on top. It's our "fun" meal of the week.

This morning I can't shake the unnerved feeling I have. As I gather the pots I bang them around harder than usual. I put the silverware on the table forcefully, like I want to imprint them in the wood. Even the pancakes come out crispier than normal, and I sympathize. It's like I've got a little fizzy bit inside, and it's not settling down. I want something, but I don't know what. It's infuriating.

I hear his footsteps, quiet as a burglar's, as I'm flipping the last two cakes.

"Morning," he greets, kissing me on the back of the head and sitting down at the table. We only have two chairs, since no one ever stays over for meals anymore. We took away the extra two after they began reminding us of times that were so cherished they became painful as memories.

"Morning," I say back, as I do every Saturday. It used to soothe me, this routine. It was what I knew, familiar, comfortable. But not today. I stay silent as I finish the pancakes, scoop them up, and pile them on top of the stack on a big white plate. I've chopped up the strawberries and put them, the pancakes, and a bottle of whipped cream on the table. He's reading the paper, like we're just another normal couple home on a Saturday morning. I sit down, lean back in my chair, and stare a hole through the Prime Minister's black and white face. What is wrong with me? Why is his reading the paper making me so angry?

He turns the page, and our eyes catch briefly. "What's the matter?" He asks from behind the newspaper.

It's like God came down and wiped off the dirt from my personal windshield. Suddenly everything makes sense, like my mind had sat in a fog all morning and now it had burned off. All it took was a damn newspaper hiding his face.

When I don't answer, he puts down the paper, picks up his fork, and piles strawberry onto his plain pancake. I count out two squirts of whipped cream in my mind before he does it. He glances up as he slices off a piece of pancake. I nearly falter when I see those beautiful eyes, colored like light green leaves right after they bloom in the spring. They never change. They always have a confident, gentle look, a look that makes you think of enveloping yourself in a warm, protective blanket. And when he smiles and that carefully cultivated spark strikes in his eyes, you think of slow dancing on a moonlit balcony in Tuscany with a violinist playing Bach.

"I'm leaving you." I say it in the same voice as I would tell him the dishwasher's acting up again.

I look closely at his eyes, watching for some flare of panic, some indication of hurt, pain, vulnerability. I see only confusion as he puts down his fork.

"What?" he says.

I'm not prepared for this. No one gave me a briefing on how to break up with someone.

"I need to think about some things," I say firmly, deciding to sound exactly the opposite of how I'm feeling. An idea comes to me. "I'm staying with Maldren for a little while."

He pushes back his chair and stands up, his eyes still cool and sure. "No."

"She's out of the hospital and needs someone to watch her."

"You tried that before."

"And I'm going to try again."

"Why do you have to leave me to do that?"

I rub my face with my hands, wanting this to be over with. I'm not very good at confrontations.

"That's not why I'm leaving. That should be obvious."

Absurdly, he takes his plate to the sink and starts washing it.

"Put the cakes in the garbage," I say out of habit. " The disposal always gets br—"

"Is there someone else?" he asks quietly. It's always quiet with him, always so damn quiet!

"No," I say hotly, wishing he could say a sentence with the same emotion that I just did.

"Then what is it?"

I make a frustrated noise. "Do you have any idea how hard it is living with a man who can't shout?"

He turns around. His hands are wet and soapy, and he's drying them with a towel. The plate is in the drying rack. "You want me to shout at you?" he asks in that infuriatingly cool voice.

"That's not the point," I say, starting to pace. "I want you to show emotion. Just a little, something, anything." I stop and stare at him. "When was the last time you felt angry?"

The look that I've dubbed "uncomfortable" flits across his face. It consists of a slight bunching of the eyebrows and a miniscule tilt downwards on the right side of his mouth. People who don't know him well don't notice the change.

"It's pointless to feel angry when you can't do anything about it," he answers. He puts the towel down without dropping my gaze.

"It's like talking to Ghandi, or Buddha," I mutter, grabbing my plate. He moves over, leaning against the side of the counter. I'm furiously scrubbing the clean plate. He puts his hand out.

"Larissa—"

"Don't," I say, shrugging my shoulder away. He quietly retreats back a few steps, still staring. I want him to try again, to grab me, clench my arm in his hand and force me to stop washing the dish. But he just watches me.

"Stop looking at me with those one-tone eyes of yours," I say. "I feel like a bug under a microscope."

"I'm trying to understand what's going on."

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" I slam the plate into the drying rack, wipe my hands on the towel, fold them over my chest, and stare at him. "I don't know you, Trowa. I know your name. I know you like pancakes on Saturday morning—wait—I don't even know that. All I know is that you tolerate pancakes on Saturday morning. You tolerate watching Portal on Monday nights. You tolerate using cold water instead of hot in the washer. You tolerate me living with you. You tolerate me, actually. That's all I know."

He says nothing. Not a flicker of emotion crosses his handsome features.

"Don't know what to say? What a surprise." I walk out of the room. I walk up to our room and take out the small suitcase from the closet. I'm packing socks when he comes to the door, but I don't stop.

"Think about this," he says.

"Why don't you get angry?" I shout suddenly, spinning around. I'm wild with anger, pent up and bubbling like a cauldron. 'Why don't you yell at me, curse at me for ruining your life, for breaking your heart, for running off with another man, anything?" I feel tears start to well up, but I force them down with the same ferocity as I force open the top drawer of the bureau. "Why, Trowa? Why is that so hard? Am I not worth it?"

I regret the words as soon as I say them. I wanted to avoid sounding selfish and narcissistic, but there they are. Floating out in the room, waiting to be grabbed up and used against me. God, I feel so pathetic right now.

"It's not you," he says.

"Right, it's not me, it's you. I know. Got that one down." I laugh derisively, but it's a short harsh bark. "Oh yeah, got that one down nice and good."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I was stupid and thought I could work through it but I can't and now we're here," I say in one breath. "And yes, it's my fault that it's gotten this bad. But it's not all my fault," I add, throwing in a black sweater. "I've tried giving you subtle hints. Like when we were watching that movie last week, what was it?"

"Backwater."

"Right. That one about the kids. No clear cut answer, no happy ending. I asked you what you thought. And you said—"

"It's just a movie. It's not important. And then you said you didn't agree, that movies can deal with pertinent human issues, drama, emotions."

"And then…." I prompt.

"And then I went to bed. I was tired."

"Exactly!" I punctuate my words with a jabbing finger. "You avoided the whole damn conversation. You never engage with others when it threatens your massive shields. You're like a damn castle, you know that? A moat, soldiers with arrows, guards ready to dump boiling tar on anyone who gets close. Christ, how did I not see this before?"

"I'm not saying I express myself well all the time—"

'None of the time, you mean. Trowa," I pause with a sneaker in hand and look at him. "I need passion. Someone who can open up to me fully. Hold nothing back. I give my whole self to you, and I need you to give me the same in return. If it's not a fair exchange then…"

I trail off and he doesn't fill in the silence. He never does. I go back to packing, and he watches me the entire time, not moving from the doorway. I want him to storm in, grab my suitcase, and throw it across the room. I want him to bar the door, grab me and hold me to keep me from leaving.

When I finish and go to the door, he hesitates and then moves out of the way. I want to shove him down the stairs.

"I love you," he says softly. We look at each other briefly, but I can't hold his steadfast, distant gaze. I have a sinking feeling I'm about to cry. He touches my shoulder. "Please don't go to Maldren's."

"I'll call you in a few days," I say, not certain I will. I've shut off the part of my mind that thinks that far ahead. Not an easy task, but in order for me to physically leave the presence of the man who's been at my side for five years, I have to sacrifice some automated functions.

"Okay," he says. That gets me through the front door and into the car. It's a small red Kia, and I shove the suitcase into the passenger seat. I realize I forgot my purse when Trowa comes to the window and holds it up. Pink with rage-filled embarrassment and pent-up tears, I open the door and yank it from him.

"Call in a few—"

I slam the door on his words. I pull out, not looking at him or our lovely white house with the picket fence. I believed that picture-perfect house held my future. Now it's like someone scrawled all over it with a black marker. 


	2. Chapter 2  Trowa

I climb the stairs slowly, puzzling out what happened and how to respond. Larissa has never been this angry, not even when Wufei died. I count on my ability to anticipate her moods, but this has thrown me into unknown territory. I am very uncomfortable.

I come to the top of the stairs and stare in disbelief at our room. Larissa is packing her bag, the black leather one she uses for our rare vacations. I can feel the slightly furry fabric under my hands, smooth and sleek. I touched every single bag in the store trying to find the right one for her. I bought it when we went to Ephesia two years ago; when we left after two weeks she had an opal ring on her finger.

"Think about this," I say to her. She spins around like a top. I put a hand on the doorframe to stop myself from backing away. I must not act any different than I normally would, or I might make the situation worse. Emotions always make a situation escalate.

I stay calm as she yells at me, and a feeling of distance increases with each word. It's like I'm in a boat drifting away from shore, and with each gentle push of a wave the fog rolls in thicker and thicker around me. I watch her mouth move but the words pummel me silently. I look at her violently gesturing hands, and as I watch they start slowly down like the slow-motion scenes in movies. They move slower and slower, bits of hair dragging through the air like its molasses, her mouth parts slightly as she finishes the last syllable, and for a fleeting, brilliant moment she's perfectly motionless. She looks like a flame-haired fury who decided to leap from the pages of ancient history, but all I see is the index finger of her right hand. It's pointed at my chest like the barrel of a gun.

Snapping like a band, time resumes. Her hand falls and she's breathing heavily. Tears pool in her amber eyes like dew.

"It's not you," I say. I have no idea what she just said to me, but I want her to know that it will never, ever be her fault. But her face is changing; the tears vanish and her eyes become hard. Her body stiffens, and I know she's leaving.

I follow the rest of the conversation vaguely, lost in the drifting boat. I am so perturbed by not knowing what to do that I can barely function. I thought that getting her purse for her would be a gesture of goodwill, show her that I want her to think things through if that's what she wants to do, that I will support her no matter what. But it seemed to make her irate.

Now I sit alone in the kitchen. I cleared the rest of the dishes, wiped off the counters, cleaned the skillet, dried it all, and put it away. I look at her empty chair, and a sudden pang of longing hits me like a punch in the gut. It lasts no more than a millisecond, but within that one moment was so much feeling I'm reeling from it. A tiny, keening whine fills the kitchen, and then is quickly silenced. I look over at the window, searching for a cat outside. The window's closed; it must have come from me.

Loneliness is a construction of the human mind. We are always alone as we are separate bodies, and because of that we should have no issue with it. We can technically never be "with" someone in the full sense of the word. I remind myself of that, and the longing vanishes.

I'll visit Hiiro. I'm still concerned about Larissa being with Maldren. He and Maldren haven't spoken in eight months, but I know he's still keeping tabs on her. Not even prison can keep him from watching us.

Hiiro is in Quadrant Five Prison, since that was where he and Maldren were living at the time. I drive my black Hyundai over. The tree-lined suburbs of Quadrant Nine give way to the muddied, bleak housing units of 8 and 7, then the silver and steel of 6, and finally the pure black of the cheap carbon-brick of Quadrant Five. Very few people are on the streets during the middle of the day, and those who are shuffle aimlessly around. Every time I come here it reminds me of the war, of the devastated cities after we swept through with no compassion and immense hubris. It shames me to think about what we did in the name of a government that none of us bothered to question.

The prison stands out from the rest of the buildings; it is surrounded by a massive dome of the latest steel-diamond hybrid, looking like a fat dollop of sparkling vanilla ice cream in the middle of the squat black buildings. I drive up to the entrance, which is indistinguishable from the rest of the building except for a small blinking blue light about three feet above the ground. The motion sensor detects my car and a silver robotic arm grows out of the dome, extending all the way to my car window. I roll it down and tell the officer in the video screen my name and who I am visiting. After consulting his computer and seeing that I am on the approved list, he nods and pushes a button. The arm retracts and a door slides open soundlessly in front of me. A kaleidoscope of thin green LED lights weaves patterns in the room I pull into. The door slides shut and another opens in front of me. Had another person attempted to sneak in when the first door opened, those LED lights would have found him and instantly rendered him unconscious.

This last door opens into the actual facility. It's composed much like a cell that way, with the cell membrane keeping out any unwanted visitors. I drive straight ahead into the parking lot. The ceiling of the dome simulates the exact conditions of the outside weather, complete with a VS sky, and I feel a breeze when I step out. This is the third time I've been here since Hiiro was arrested eight months ago.

A guard escorts me through security, where I show my old army clearance ID, am scanned, and show them that I have brought nothing with me. I don't tell the guards, but I forgot to take my driver's ID with me when I left. It's the first time I've done that.

I pass through the scanner and come into a long, brightly lit hallway. Dozens of doors line the white walls, and I pick number 13. A guard is currently retrieving Hiiro and will bring him into the room.

The room is small, with a small ventilation fan that whirs quietly and a door at each end. My footsteps echo against the cold metal floor. I sit at the black table, large enough to seat six but with only two chairs, one at either end. Hiiro will be in a straitjacket, his ankles strapped to the chair and the chair bolted to the floor. They've had a few issues with attempted escapes.

A few minutes later a wary guard escorts Hiiro inside. The guard is a good foot taller than Hiiro's five foot nine, and bulky like a wrestler. His uniform shirt strains against his biceps. In his hand, Hiiro's shoulder looks like it could snap. The white jacket makes Hiiro look like a cocooned moth.

I'm facing the door, and watch silently as the big man straps Hiiro into the chair. I notice that Hiiro's hair is shaggier, something I didn't think possible, reaching nearly to his shoulders. I heard they forbade him from getting his hair cut after he incapacitated the hair dresser and used the laser scissors to cut through his straight jacket. He held the scissors in his mouth and ended up cutting more of his skin than the actual fabric. "It's the only reason he didn't make it out." Quatre told me the last time I saw him. "They followed the blood trail. He was crawling, Trowa. C_rawling_."

The guard stands up, nods to me, and leaves. The door shuts with a clang. Hiiro looks up at me.

"What do you want."

At least his voice is still the same. That deadpan, monotone voice controlled my life for years. If someone asked me what sound reminds you of when you were young, I would say Hiiro's voice.

"I want to know Maldren's condition," I say. He and I never bother with small talk. That's one of the things that attracted me to Larissa; she finds it pointless too. Or did.

"Why?" He asks.

I'm a little unsettled by the glint in his cold blue eyes. They glare at me from under thick, black eyebrows, his eye sockets sunken and ringed like a raccoon's. The grim reaper pops into my head.

"Larissa wants to visit her," I say.

"She left the facility three days ago."

"I know."

Hiiro leans back, not dropping my gaze. There's definitely something about him that's different, edgier.

"She's better," he says, and his voice isn't as hard. He's settling into his debriefing mode. "She spent 43 days in the facility, during which she spent 14 of those days in critical care, 10 under intense observation, and 19 under moderate observation. She was required to attend two psychotherapy sessions a day and 1 meditation counseling every other day. The rest of the time she spent in her room painting or writing, exercising, and eating in the food hall. Most nights she slept straight through. When she didn't she exercised."

"I know all this, it's the same as last time," I say in an even voice. "What about her mental condition? The final analysis?"

"Competent. She knows what she did was wrong, is self-reflective and has expressed a desire to resume a normal life. She has to find a job within the next month and will continue to see a counselor three times a week. A failure on any of these counts results in her being sent back to—"

"Again, I know. It's the same thing she said last time, Hiiro."

He stares at me for a moment.

"What's wrong, Trowa?" he asks finally.

"Nothing."

"You're lying."

Hiiro leans forward and his glare becomes impossibly intense. Were I the type to react to this, I would have run from the room screaming. But I gaze back easily. I don't want to explain to him the situation; he has no need to hear it.

"Just tell me if Larissa will be safe around her," I say. I look hard at him. "The truth, Hiiro."

"Minimal chance of physical harm," he says instantly. His mouth moves but no other part of him does. "About 30% to Maldren, 15 % to Larissa. Considering the amount of time spent in the facility, I'd say it drops to 8 % for Larissa. Verbal abuse is higher, about 50 %. It depends on what they talk about. If Larissa brings up last year, both physical and verbal abuse rises by 40%."

Hearing him speak of the possible physical harm that might come to my fiancé at the hands of one of our best friends should be terrifying, and I know this, but I don't feel it. I nod.

"Maldren's ability to be self-sufficient?" I ask.

"Low. Under 20%."

"Chance of relapse?"

"High. 85%."

"What do you recommend?"

"You should go with Larissa. Two people greatly reduce the chances of physical harm."

"And if I can't?"

Again he pauses, watching me.

"What's going on?" he demands. I've inadvertently hit a nerve; he abhors not knowing every little detail of our lives, even our personal lives. It's a compulsion with him, one that only got worse over time. As he lost control over our actions, he became obsessive about our movements. I sometimes wonder if it's because he cares about us or because he's paranoid.

"Larissa and I are fighting."

It's strange to say it out loud, but I feel a little lighter after I say the words. Like I took off a heavy sweater.

"About what?"

"If I can't be there with her?" I prompt, ignoring the question.

"She shouldn't spend the night, but the days will be fine, for the first few. Then Maldren will begin the drift back into the old patterns as the euphoria of the facility's treatments wears off. Her psychotherapist will be able to hold off the inevitable mental break for a few weeks, maybe months, but Maldren will be back in that facility. Permanently. I assume you don't want Larissa to be the reason for that permanent placement," he adds.

"No nights?"

"She has terrible nightmares. In the middle of the night she sometimes forgets what's reality and what's the nightmare."

The chair makes a painful squeal when I push it back and stand up.

"Thank you, Hiiro," I say sincerely. I turn to go, and then pause. I look back at him over my shoulder. "Take care of yourself."

He stays motionless. I go to the door and open it. A guard stands on each side.

"It's not over," Hiiro says right before I step outside. The words are so quiet I look back to make sure it was he who said them.

"What?"

"The war." He looks directly into my eyes. "The war isn't over."

A deep sadness, separate from the emotions I've felt for Larissa, settles into my chest. Watching my friend slowly go insane is not easy.

"Yes it is," I say gently. "No one is fighting anymore."

"6F01MH5. March 6, 2345." He drops his gaze to the table. He's done talking.

I walk out into the hallway. The letter and number sequence is for a code or password of some kind, and the date must be an important event. It's November 30, 2347 today, and I can't think of anything that happened on that date. Nothing significant, at least.

By the time I reach the car I decide to check my files and see if anything comes up. My mind sifts calmly through all the reasons Hiiro might have said the war wasn't over, ranging from insanity to hard physical evidence. I then go over why our government would continue the war secretly rather than outwardly. It could be because our citizens wouldn't support another war, or because the galactic council had already frowned upon our continued engagement in the war. I have no further information on which to base my conclusions; I'll have to wait until I find this information that Hiiro is hinting at, if it even exists.

I then turn my thoughts to Larissa. I want her to have the space to think about our relationship, and so decide to send her message urging her not to spend the night with Maldren. She can ignore the message if she wants; I will give her the freedom to make her own choice. I have no right to force her to do anything just because I think it is a good idea. There are as many perspectives on life as there are people.

I will, however, rent a car and park outside Maldren's apartment for the next few nights. I'll call Quatre to help me set up surveillance; his company must have some new devices that aren't on the market yet.

I look over at the passenger seat when I feel the seat cushion under my hand. I've unconsciously moved my hand to the place where her leg usually rests. I look back to the road, but lightly rub the cushion with my thumb, just like I would have rubbed her leg. She would be sitting silently, looking out the window with a soft smile. She always watches the scenery like she's trying to memorize It, but what people don't know is that she hardly sees it. Her mind is turned inward, and she told me that's when she thinks the best. When she's on the move, going somewhere; she loves movement, the displaced time when you're neither here nor there.

When I touch her leg she looks over at me, letting me interrupt her thoughts, and puts her hand over mine. She has beautiful, elegant hands. Her thick hair falls loose around her shoulders like a scarlet scarf. She's wearing her favorite black coat, the one with the high collar and big silver buttons.

I often wonder what motivates people to do the things they do. Every action I take has a reason behind it, or I wouldn't do it. I think a great deal, but I rarely think deeply; I came to the conclusion a long time ago that this life has little meaning in the present, and as I don't know what comes next, little matters. I act in accordance with this belief. It's served me well, both before the war and during.

After, however, is a different situation. One for which I am ill prepared.


	3. Chapter 3  Jori

You know what my favorite thing to do is? Look at the sky. It's not only my favorite color, blue, but it's…uncomplicated. Easy to understand. I don't have to explain myself to it; I just stare up at it, and we smile at each other, and I have a friend for those precious few moments. I am looking at her right now (I've decided it's female because it has a seductive, feminine quality as it flows through twilight into night), and I feel delicious.

I'm mad iced, with no track mark left thanks to the newest needle designed by my own Angel, and brilliant violet sparkles pop into the cobalt sky like fireworks. I smile and sigh contentedly. The stress and tension and unwanted thoughts drain though my body like I've been sucked dry by a vampire, and it's wonderful. My thoughts can never leave without help, and I hate them. I don't think about things anymore. It's so much easier this way.

The grass beneath me tickles like soft fur, one scratching my arm beneath the elbow. It's like the sensation is a nerve impulse, lightening quick, streaming through my arm, to my chest, to my brain, and exploding in a fantastic array of colors in the sky.

"What?" Duo asks when I start giggling. I point up to the sky.

"Can't you see?" I say. "Can't you see it? Look." I grab his hand and hold it up, pointing his finger at a point to the left of the smaller sun. "Right there. The colors…It's like a rainbow's been torn to shreds and tossed like confetti."

"Jori..."

I look over after a moment. His voice was so serious I'm afraid to look. He's staring at me with those innocent blue eyes, so bright they look like two big moons. No matter how many times I look at those eyes I feel a tingle all the way through me, right down to my pinky toe. I think they're getting bigger as I watch him.

He says nothing. A piece of tall grass pokes up in front of his nose, and I push it down with my free hand. It pops back up. I push it back down. It pops back up. I pu—

"It's not working."

"What's not, silly?" I ask distractedly.

He brings our hands, still outstretched to the sky like beggars', back to the ground in between us. He runs a hand over the invisible track mark, on my left temple, and his face explodes like a frag into thousands of whirling colors, spinning like dervishes. I can't concentrate on anything—my whole body vibrates, tingles, deliciously warm, then shivering cold and I can't think, can't speak, can't….

When I come to a few seconds later Duo's hand is under my head and I've drooled a little. I close my eyes. I want to hold on to the last wisps of the mind-gasm, grabbing up the remnants like a squirrel hoarding nuts for the winter. It's the best feeling in the world.

"This," Duo suddenly says so mournfully I honestly thought he was about to cry. He hasn't cried in months, and he was doing so much better on the new stuff, TripIce. I try to focus on him, but my eyes are still slightly crossed, just like the wires in my head after the mind-gasm. Shit, I've got to get this to Maldren. She'd love it. Or hate it. One or the other for her and Hiiro, nothing in between. What a way to live.

"What're you talking 'bout?" I slur. Like my eyes, my mouth is still trying to work out the kinks of motor function.

Duo lowers his voice to a whisper and a sheen comes into his eyes. "I'm still thinking, Jor. I can't stop it."

The coldness that creeps into my body is not the same cold I felt a moment ago. There's nothing pleasant about this cold. But I plaster a smile on my face, scrunching up my face hard. He closes his eyes when I put my hand on his chest. When I start twirling my finger, he sighs. I know what he must be feeling, the incredible bliss. It's not the same as physical pleasure; it's a step above. The evolution of physical pleasure.

"You just have t'try hard'r," I murmur. A light breeze wafts over our bodies and we sigh as it sends currants of electricity skittering through our cells.

I look back up to the sky. We're basically elaborate robots, our bodies streamlined for our necessary functions. Break one important bit, and the rest can't function. Add something new to the mix and all sorts of fun things can happen. We're just like computers, but I like computers better. There's nothing more satisfying than building a program from scratch, bringing lifeless lines of code together to form a living being. I used to work with computers, customizing all the machines I operated during the war. People called me Dr. Frankenstein because I could fix anything, make anything, and had a strange fascination with cyborgs.

There was a time when I could have told you every single bone in the human body, a time when I could draw a detailed map of the human nervous system. A time when I could explain all the horrible side effects of Ice, enumerate the reasons to avoid it, and tell you why I pledged to never inject it into my body, even when we were using it for an adrenaline boost.

But that was a long time ago—stop! Brain, I order you to stop thinking about that.

"Stop it," I say aloud. Duo doesn't hear me, or doesn't care enough to say anything. The Ice is wearing off, and the heavy slab of concrete reality is falling from the sky straight at me. It's been months since I let it hit me, and I'll be damned if I'm going to start now.

"Duo, I'm near." I poke him, evoking a genuine cry of pain, like I've stabbed him. All sensations are magnified, not just the nice ones. "Near, Duo." That's our code word that lets the other know it's time to find the next hit. It can take us hours to find a dealer, since they never go to the same place twice. Too dangerous. Judging from the suns, it's almost noon. I'll fit in two or three more hits before we call it a night.

I gingerly sit up, and the sensation from pushing against the grass isn't as strong as before. I look down at Duo. He's staring straight up, his pupils dilated so far the blue is a thin stripe. He's lost weight, we both have, but Ice is loaded with electrolytes so and vitamins so we're not too bad off. The people who make it, those invisible people in black suits and dark glasses, don't want their customers dying too soon.

His scar shines dully, paler than his skin, tracing out a perfectly straight diagonal line from the top of his nose, over his cheek, past his mouth, to the middle of his jaw line on the right. I snap my head to the side, reeling a bit from the sudden nausea of movement. That damned scar conjures up images of memories I don't want. I can smell the acrid smoke, feel the fire, see the sleek, sliver blade. Who would've guessed he'd get a scar like that _after_ the war.

Stop! No more thinking.

"Duo."

"What?"

"Get up. I need another hit."

"Maybe two at once."

He opens his eyes. They're wild, but I don't know if it's with pain or pleasure. The two are so intertwined nowadays that I can't distinguish between them.

"That's just stupid, Duo."

"Think about it, Jor." He's smiling now, his fox grin, where his lips curl up at the ends and his two top canines look like a vampire's. No woman can resist the fox grin; I certainly couldn't. Right now he looks good enough to eat, but the hunger inside me is clamoring for something else. Something icier. The fog in my head is clearing, and I'm not liking what's being revealed.

"Two at once would make our brains mushy, like oatmeal," I say.

"Just a little the second time. Come on," he says, taking my hand. "We'll just try a little, see what happens. If it's this quick wearing off, what's a little more going to do?"

I can never resist him when he's charming, and he knows it.

"Maybe," I concede. "But first we should worry about finding some."

"Angel gave me a tip this morning. Somewhere in Quadrant Two North, at 3 o clock."

I lift my right hand up. I still have my standard-issue three-in-one accessory implant; a watch, GPS, and radar all in one small disc on my wrist. It's a thin coating above the skin, with luminous LED lights, controlled by brain waves. I think about the time and it shows it. I'm lucky a poacher hasn't tried to slice it out yet.

"We're in Quad Five, right? 30 minutes straight to Q 2. We've got two and a bit hours. Plenty of time for food," I say.

"You have money for that? Where is this secret treasure chest of gold?" he says with a grin.

"I have my secrets," I say coyly.

"Oh yeah?"

"You bet. You only _think_ you know me," I tease.

Moving with cat-like speed he pins me to the ground. His braid slips past his neck, pooling next to my head. He lowers his mouth very close to mine.

"What secrets?" he whispers. The hunger inside is splitting between Duo and Ice, and I can't decide which I want more. Duo brushes my temple with his finger.

I think Ice will have to wait.


End file.
